I'm bored, Writing Challenge? First person story without using 'I'

LUCKYThe unmistakable smell of aviation fuel begins to fill the small cockpit, one wing was torn off in the crash while the other points into the grey sky. The fuel is running out of the damaged hand primer in front of me and it will probably keep flowing until the entire wing tank is empty. The canopy is too heavy to open with a broken arm, blood soaks the fabric of my flight suit. Six of us took off as bomber escorts on this pointless mission, resistance was light and they ordered us to return once the bombers had safely cleared Reims. We could almost taste the thick English ale as the coast came into sight, then all hell broke loose. A pack of 109’s dropped out of the cloud cover and rained lead down upon us. The Jerrys smoked Perkins then sawed through O’Malley’s plane as he cut high. One by one they mowed us down until me and Frisk were the last planes in the air, we poured on the juice and made a run Dover.Like hounds on a blood trail they followed us halfway across the channel, luckily our shore guns opened up and chased ‘em off. Smoke started pouring from the engine and my fingers instinctively shut down both switches to the magnetos before anything ignited. Without power, the Mustang fell like a stone and it was too late for me to jump. She stayed level until the wing caught a hedgerow and the plane cartwheeled.

Nothing is burning, and the manifolds cooled as the plane coasted in, the only sounds are the splashing of fuel into a puddle beneath me and the ‘tick tick’ of hot metal contracting. My brain races, trying to think of any other possible sources for ignition, and it comes up empty. Well, old boy, you might just make it out of this one alive, of course you’ll reek of fuel for a month. Through the cracked canopy a familiar silhouette banks high into the sky and heads back this way, It’s Frisk, he saw the crash and he’s coming back!The pilot cruises over the wreckage and thumbs his intercom, “Hang tight mate, you’re going to be OK!” The message relays into the crashed plane and his calming voice issues from the small speaker, inside the speaker a tiny arc dances across the magnet, an arc hot enough to ignite the vapor of aviation fuel.

We sat there, staring at it. Like nothin' you ever saw. Well, can't speak for your nightmares, but nothing like this came from mine.

Had a middle like a disc, like it could spin, but concave, what they call hollow ground, so all it could do if it spun would be to cut you. No room in there for cargo or people -- not even like these. Top bit was like, well, you ever seen them rides at the carnival, you go up a tower and they drop you straight down? And the bit behind it looked like it was some kind of a woodscrew, only big as your house.

Two thick legs, holding it up. Glowing, like lasers, almost.

That thing sauntered up to us -- kind of thick and kind of cloudy, all at once. It grabbed my sweaty extended hand and it felt electric! Tingly, not solid at all. Not warm, not cold, not anything, like it was nothing, but a tingly nothing. Never did anything so fast as yanking my hand back, wiping it on my shirt, wishing this alien thing wasn't in front of me.

"Peace," it said, only it was like "Peeeeeaaaaassssss."

Ronny, he run off. Don't blame him, but couldn't do that, myself. Like my feet were stuck.

"Peace, feeel Peeeeeace" it said.

Next thing, the police were there, and the ambulance. Everything was dark... And later they told me... Those things took my I's.